


Nerves and Ngks and Newly Found Courage

by Estrella3791



Series: Coffee Shops and Cocoa [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Beelzebub being a wingperson, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Ducks, First Kiss, Getting Together, He is also Smitten, M/M, Texting, and we still love them, beelzebub is a good friend, but don't let them know you think that, everyone's a mess, we know this already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27282208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estrella3791/pseuds/Estrella3791
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley attempt to figure out how to start a romantic relationship. Aziraphale is pretty great. Crowley can't seem to stop panicking. There are ducks.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Coffee Shops and Cocoa [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971151
Comments: 37
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Crowley's constant panic about texting is lifted directly from my own experiences.  
> Also, I'd like to dedicate this to everybody who commented on the first two installments of this story, because you are literally the reason this exists.

It’s not as if Aziraphale is going to text him right away, Crowley tells himself, locking up the shop. 

It’s not as if he needs to be in any sort of hurry, he reminds himself, walking home. Aziraphale has his number now. There’s no rush.

He’s not going to check his phone, he decides as he climbs up the stairs to his flat. There’s no point, after all. Aziraphale won’t have texted him.

He lasts all of two seconds after sitting down in his living room before checking his phone. (Well, what passes for a living room. Considering that his apartment is all one room, save for the bathroom and a closet, it’s less a living room and more the corner he’s shoved his couch into.) His heart proceeds to leap into his throat, because he has a notification.

**Unknown, 8:43 PM**

**Hello! This is Aziraphale, from the coffee shop. Is this Crowley?**

All of the calm that Crowley had been carefully cultivating flies out the window. He thinks he can hear his plants rustle as it hurtles past them.

**Crowley, 9:13 PM**

**Yes**

He saves Aziraphale’s number in his phone and then leaves the device on the table while he goes to take a shower, except that after turning the shower on he decides that he really can’t wait so he retrieves it from the living room, such as it is, and brings it into the bathroom with him. He wants to hear the buzz. If there is one.

And there  _ is _ , halfway through shampooing. He sticks his hands under the water to get the soap off of them, jumps out of the shower stark naked and with suds in his hair, and lunges.

**Aziraphale, 9:23 PM**

**Glad to hear it. :-) How has your evening been?**

Crowley lets out an undignified squawk, drops his phone on the counter, and dives back into the shower, shivering a little bit. He thinks about possible responses while he rinses shampoo out of his hair and works in the conditioner.

**Good, now that I’ve got you to talk to ;)**

Nah. That is far too honest, and too wordy.

**Fine**

Nope. He needs to seem a  _ little _ interested. 

**good. you?**

Yes, thinks Crowley, short and sweet and interested, and gets out of the shower and dries himself off and sends it.

He experiences instant regret, and stalks out of the bathroom and across his floor to his kitchenette. 

“Whatever,” he says to his plants, aggressively misting them. “‘S not like I really care - ”

He gets cut off by his phone buzzing from where he left it on the bathroom counter, and is fairly sure that his plants are laughing at him as he drops the mister and all but sprints past them but can’t find it in himself to care.

*******

He and Aziraphale text almost constantly over the next few days. He’d have expected it of himself - he’s never been good at leaving people alone when he likes them - but he is stunned by how reliably (and quickly) Aziraphale replies. 

And he doesn’t just reply. He starts conversations. He asks questions. From where Crowley is standing, it looks like he  _ cares _ , truly, about Crowley. And how Crowley is feeling. And what Crowley likes to eat, and do, and where he’d go if he could go anywhere in the world.

It is  _ amazing _ .

He’d like to pretend that it doesn’t mean so much to him, that it doesn’t thrill him every time he gets an answer to a question. Or gets asked a question himself. Or is given a brief glimpse into Aziraphale’s day. 

( **A horrid woman just came in. I can’t tell you about it now but remind me to tell you about the coconut oil lady.**

Or

**So sorry I’m so late responding; I just had the most lovely conversation with a young man about Douglas Adams.**

Or

**I forgot about my tea and left it on the counter all day. I don’t want to drink it cold but I don’t want to reheat it, either. What shall I DO, Crowley?** )

But it does. It means a ridiculous lot to him.

***

He spends the week after they start texting trying to gather up the courage to ask if Aziraphale would consider meeting up in  _ person _ , seeing each other face to face. Messaging Aziraphale is  _ wonderful _ , and he doesn’t want to stop, but he’s always been a wanter, and he wants to see Aziraphale again. Take in his veritable halo of fluffy white-blond hair, and those  _ marvelous _ eyes. Hear him laugh, maybe, if Crowley gets lucky.

Except that Crowley is a coward, and does not send the text. 

He’s seconds away from snapping at a customer when the bell rings and he glances at the door out of instinct and it is  _ Aziraphale _ , backlit by the afternoon sun like the angel he is, and Crowley ducks his head and focuses on the cash register, grinning like an idiot.

Karen is dealt with, and Aziraphale steps up to the counter, practically glowing.

“Hello, Crowley!” he says. “I know that we’ve been talking quite a bit via text on our mobile phones, but I found myself wanting to see your lovely face in person again. I hope that’s all right.”

Crowley chokes on the  _ lovely _ . His face is very warm and very red, he’s sure. He can’t quite remember how the alphabet works.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, frowning, looking upset, “I’ve done it again, haven’t I? I’m sorry, this was  _ incredibly _ forward of me. I apologize. If - ”

“Please don’t,” says Bee, setting a pitcher down with much more force than necessary and jabbing a finger in Crowley’s direction. “He’s been pining after you since the second you walked in that door. He is absolutely elated that you’re here, and you’re not enough of an idiot not to know that. So  _ please _ , I beg of you, just ask him out so we can all move on with our lives.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, sounding amused. (At least, Crowley thinks he sounds amused. He buried his face in his hands about three seconds into Bee’s speech, and there is currently a dull roaring noise in his ears.) “I see.”

“Good,” says Bee, and they pick up their pitcher. “Calm down, Crowley.”

“‘S kinda hard to do when you just made a fool out of me,” he says into his hands.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Bee testily. “He wouldn’t still be here if he didn’t like you, you moron.”

And then they disappear into the kitchen, presumably to avoid whatever happens next. Bee is not a fan of feelings. 

Crowley can’t decide if he wants to die, cry, or do some physical violence. Maybe all of the above.

“My dear,” says Aziraphale gently, and Crowley forces himself to look up like an adult. Aziraphale looks entertained and anticipatory rather than insulted or disgusted.  _ This is a good sign _ , Crowley tells himself.

“Sorry,” says Crowley, wanting to die even  _ more _ at the look of understanding on Aziraphale’s face. If there is any expectation that Crowley is going to stop himself from falling head over heels in love, Aziraphale is going to have to stop being so wonderful.

“No need,” says Aziraphale, somewhat curtly. “Much as I like you - and I  _ do _ like you, dear, very much, you must have realized this by now - you  _ are _ a bit ridiculous.”

The sting of ‘ridiculous’ is all but erased by the fact that Aziraphale  _ likes _ him, apparently. Very much. Crowley no longer wants to die. Or cry. Fly, maybe. 

“Well,” says Crowley, with no idea how the sentence is going to end. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale smiles at him. It’s so fond that it makes Crowley feel a little bit dizzy.

“Will you have dinner with me?” Aziraphale asks.

“Ngk,” says Crowley. “Yes.” 

Aziraphale opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again.

“Tonight?”

“Aghck. Yes.”

Aziraphale  _ beams _ .

“Excellent,” he says. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha imagine having started your final papers at the beginning of November and being almost done with them at this point in the semester instead of having forgotten about every single one until very recently hahaha crazy amiright
> 
> so yeah this is a mess because I wrote it to procrastinate and my brain is done. so. I tried, but it didn't work so well? I dunno.
> 
> I TRIED, is the point.
> 
> En... joy? and if you, too, are a student at this point in time, I am praying for you.

Aziraphale can’t help smiling as he hears the kerfluffle of Crowley realizing he’s staring and busily finding something else to do. He’s been doing this since Aziraphale sat down. 

Which was a  _ bit _ cruel of him, he knows. Crowley’s boss — Bee, he thinks their name is — was right; Aziraphale  _ would  _ have to be an idiot (or more of one, anyway) not to see how profoundly Crowley is affected by his presence. It is  _ beyond _ flattering, especially considering the fact that Crowley is the sort of stunningly beautiful person who most likely turns heads everywhere he goes, and Aziraphale’s confidence was so bolstered by Crowley’s flustered acceptance of his invitation to dinner that he ordered a hot chocolate and planted himself in a chair and is doing his best not to let on that he knows Crowley is gawking at him. 

“What are you doing?” asks someone, and Aziraphale looks up to see the boss (their nametag says Bee; he was right) glaring at him.

He blinks back at them, surprised. 

“I’m drinking a lovely cup of cocoa at this table,” he informs them, feeling bewildered.

“I mean with Crowley,” growls Bee. Aziraphale chokes on his cocoa.

“Oh,” he says weakly, when he’s recovered. “May I ask  _ why _ you’re - er - interested?”

“Because he cares a lot about you,” says Bee with an indecipherable expression, “and I - ” they experience a sudden coughing fit, and mumble, “he’s an idiot and  _ I _ care about  _ him _ ,” at an almost inaudible volume. 

“Oh,” says Aziraphale again, feeling as though he’s received a sudden blow to the gut. He wasn’t expecting to meet any of Crowley’s - er - friends at any point in the near future, and he certainly wasn’t expecting to have one of them march over to his table to vet him out. He swallows. “I suppose,” he says, dabbing his lips with his napkin to buy himself more time, “I suppose that I’m only trying to get to know him better, at this point.”

“But you like him?” they ask, looking, Aziraphale thinks with relief, a little less suspicious. 

“Very much,” he says, and doesn’t bother trying to keep the silly grin off of his face, figuring that it can only help his cause.

“And you’ll be a good boyfriend, if he dates you?” they persist. “You won’t - uh - cheat?”

“Never!” says Aziraphale, shocked. “Why would you even ask?”

“No reason,” they say. It’s a very unconvincing lie. “You just - you won’t, right? You’ll be - you’ll be good? Nice?” 

They look embarrassed that they’re asking but unwilling to leave without assuring themselves of Aziraphale’s good intentions, and Aziraphale is rattled and curious and charmed, all at once.

“Of course,” says Aziraphale firmly, still startled but meaning it with all his heart. “I will do everything in my power to be as good to him as I possibly can. If he chooses to do me the honour of, er, choosing me. Of course.”

“Well,” says Bee, shoving their hands in their pockets, “that’s alright, then.”

And they return to their post behind the counter with, Aziraphale is sure, a much softer expression on their face than before. 

He sits there, feeling stunned and off-kilter and very,  _ very _ curious.

*

He can hardly stay at the table until dinnertime, so once he finishes his hot chocolate he heads for home and sits in front of his laptop, staring at a blinking cursor. If anyone were to ask him what he’s doing he’d say working. He would be lying. He is  _ burning _ with curiosity about why Bee deemed it necessary to inspect a prospect of Crowley’s, and he’s burning with something that’s not curiosity when he lets himself speculate a little. (Anger. He’s burning with anger when he thinks about possible reasons that a friend of Crowley’s would be concerned about a prospective partner cheating. But it feels presumptive and too much, so he tries not to think about it.)

He also texts Crowley, asking him when he can pick him up, and Crowley says that he gets off at five, and they agree to meet in front of the cafe when his shift is done.

Aziraphale spends far more time than he’d ever admit fussing over whether or not he should change, and then he’s out the door and down the street, full of nerves and anticipation, on his way to Fire and Brimstone Cafe for the second time today.

Crowley is waiting for him outside, and his heart leaps.

“Hello,” he says, smiling. Crowley looks up from his phone, startled, and then breaks into a huge grin. Aziraphale wonders how his heart is supposed to cope with that as he returns the smile.

“Hello,” says Crowley.

“Ready to go?” asks Aziraphale. (Crowley is clearly ready to go. He doesn’t know why he asked.) 

“Yep,” says Crowley. “Uh - where?”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, who hadn’t thought this far ahead. “I’m afraid I hadn’t given it much thought. I was so excited, you see.”

“Aghck,” says Crowley, looking flustered at the very idea of Aziraphale being excited to spend time with him. Aziraphale tries not to melt, but it is difficult. 

“What about you?” he asks, to distract himself from how adorable Crowley is. “Where do  _ you _ want to go?”

“Oh,” says Crowley, surprised. “I - uh - don’t know.”

“That’s all right,” says Aziraphale, who has been thinking all day about why Beelzebub would be concerned about him cheating on Crowley and has started piecing some things together and is filled with rage at the very  _ idea _ of someone - well. “Do you want to start walking and see where we end up?”

“Ngk - yeah,” says Crowley.

“Well,” he says, gesturing to the grimy sidewalk, “shall we?” 

“We shall,” says Crowley, and they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date times!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who sympathized with/encouraged me about my papers. Have I written them?  
> No. No, I have not.  
> But I HAVE outlined, and elected to reward myself by writing this. It's a classic "I banged this out in under two hours and am sending it off unedited because I miss the rush of posting things" kinda deal.  
> I hope you enjoy regardless.  
> Also all of you are such wonderful people and I hope that your November was okay and your December is FANTASTIC.

They have Italian.

It’s a tiny place, tucked in between a coffee shop and a boutique, and Crowley is skeptical at first but the food is _amazing_.

“I’ve been coming here for years,” gushes Aziraphale, “and not once have I been disappointed.”

“Wow,” says Crowley, trying not to be charmed and failing utterly. Of course Aziraphale is the type to frequent a place. He probably tips well, too. “I can see why you like it.”

He bites off another chunk of breadstick to prove his point.

“Oh, good,” says Aziraphale, flushing. Crowley is even _more_ charmed. “I was a little worried, I’ll admit.”

Crowley chokes on his breadstick, garlicky goodness getting stuck in his throat, and coughs until it dislodges. It never ceases to amaze him that Aziraphale seems to be just as interested in him as he is in Aziraphale. Incredible. 

“Well,” says Crowley, flustered and red-faced, “you, uh, don’t have to worry. About me liking places. I’ll like them fine as long as you’re there.”

And then he realizes what he just said and turns even _more_ red, becoming suddenly interested in the half-eaten pasta on his plate. 

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley doesn’t want to look up but he does, because if Aziraphale’s about to tell him that he’s weird and way too invested way too early, he wants to see the look in his eyes while he says it. 

Aziraphale isn’t looking at him with contempt, with the ‘you’re such a nerd and I’m a little embarrassed to be seen with you in public’ scowl that Lucy wore so often. Aziraphale’s eyes are soft, and warm, and smiling, and they make Crowley’s tummy do funny melty things. 

“That’s very lovely,” Aziraphale tells him, and Crowley splutters for a while. “I mean it,” Aziraphale insists, looking him in the eyes, and Crowley thinks that it _cannot_ be healthy for his face to be this red. “You are truly one of the sweetest people I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet.”

“Nah,” says Crowley, scrambling to find a mental foothold. “Not sweet. ‘M quite mean, really, when you get to know me.”

“Ah, of course,” says Aziraphale, and he’s still smiling, and it’s still thoroughly overwhelming. “My mistake.”

*

They go to St. James’ park, after, because it was reasonably close, and feed the ducks. 

Frozen peas, because bread is bad for them, apparently. Crowley didn’t know, but Aziraphale seems very passionate about it. 

“They’re ridiculous, aren’t they?” says Aziraphale, sounding fond. 

He’s very focused on the ducks, so Crowley can ogle him shamelessly. He’s so _pretty_ , Crowley thinks breathlessly. Fluttery eyelashes and smooth skin and those _curls_ , those fluffy white-blond curls. He wonders if they’re as soft as they look. 

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees, without being sure what he’s agreeing to. “Ridiculous.”

“Ri _duck_ ulous,” says Aziraphale absently, and then blushes. Crowley feels his jaw dropping, and can’t stop the delighted grin that rushes to his face. “I’m so sorry, dear, that was _horrible_ \- ”

“It was _great_ ,” Crowley says, lying. “I loved it.”

_That’s_ honest, at least.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, biting his lip and looking back at the ducks. “You’re quite generous.”

Crowley _was_ being generous, but he can’t respond, because Aziraphale’s _lips_ and his _teeth_ and his _mouth…_

“I was wondering,” says Aziraphale, in the sudden rush of someone who’s been working out how to say something that they’re nervous to say. Crowley, jolting guiltily and meeting Aziraphale’s eyes, is nervous by extension. “Oh, my dear, don’t look like that — it’s nothing _bad_ , I promise you.” 

Crowley feels himself immediately relax. Aziraphale smiles at him, and Crowley, in a fit of boldness, reaches for his hand. Aziraphale blushes and intertwines their fingers, and now _Crowley_ is the one blushing. 

“I was just wondering,” Aziraphale continues, gaze fixed on their now-joined hands, “if you might be interested in joining me at mine for a nightcap?”

Crowley resists the urge to point out that it’s probably not even eight yet and therefore this would be more of an eveningcap. 

“Yes,” he says instead. “I would be interested.”

“Lovely,” says Aziraphale, beaming, and between that and the fingers that are threaded through his Crowley finds himself desperately looking towards the ducks. 

“They _are_ a bit ridiculous, aren’t they?” he observes, watching one park itself in the middle of the gravel path. 

“Quite,” agrees Aziraphale. 

*

Aziraphale, it turns out, lives above a bookshop — _his_ bookshop. Crowley knew he worked at _a_ bookshop, but he was not aware that Aziraphale _owned_ it.

“It’s been in the family for quite some time,” Aziraphale tells him, locking the door behind them. “I come from a long line of bookworms.”

It’s a cosy place. A bit disorganized, perhaps. Books are stacked on every available surface, and there is no discernible order to the ones on the shelves, but it adds to the appeal, he thinks. 

“It’s nice,” says Crowley. “I like it.” 

“You do?” repeats Aziraphale, and there’s that blinding smile again. Crowley is going to need to start wearing sunglasses at this rate. “I’m glad.”

Crowley doesn’t let himself think about _why_ Aziraphale might be glad, and focuses instead on following Aziraphale through the stacks to the back. There’s a staircase, and at the top is a hallway and a kitchen and a sofa. 

“It’s not much, I know,” says Aziraphale, looking self-conscious.

“It’s perfect,” says Crowley, meaning it. He likes how small it is. Weirdly comforting. “Suits you, I think.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. “Well, thank you. I’ll make some - er - tea, shall I? Or would you rather have a proper - I think I have wine somewhere - ”

“No, no,” says Crowley, who would infinitely prefer wine to tea. “Tea is fine.”

Aziraphale bustles over to the counter and puts the kettle on. Crowley watches him, and then is hit with a horrible thought.

“Not because it’s not much!” he blurts. Aziraphale turns to look at him. “The suiting you, I mean. The flat. Suiting you. It doesn’t suit you because it’s not much. It’s _not_ not much. It’s very nice, and cosy, and I feel safe here. Which is - uh.”

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and wishes he were dead, but when he opens them Aziraphale is looking at him with that warm, soft, heart-melting gaze.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he says. “I appreciate that.”

“Yeah,” says Crowley, and flops onto the sofa, silently vowing never to speak again.

Aziraphale gets him to break his vow of silence almost immediately, because he brings over a cup of tea, and of course Crowley says thank you. 

He is pulled into conversation about his interests, and Aziraphale says shyly that he’d like to see some of Crowley’s art someday and Crowley spouts that of course he can see some and then promptly regrets the decision. Aziraphale distracts him, though, regaling him with tales of snippy customers and self-righteous family members. 

He’s laughing at a joke (Aziraphale is _funny_ ; snarky and sarcastic and witty in a way that Crowley frankly wouldn’t have guessed just from looking at him) when Aziraphale’s eyes stop crinkling and go serious. He sets his mug on the coffee table. Crowley follows suit and sits up, heart flip-flopping. Is this - is he - are they - 

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale,” says Crowley, trying to remember to keep breathing.

“I find your company absolutely delightful,” says Aziraphale, and his eyes are darting around the room, unable to stay fixed on Crowley’s for very long.

Crowley is _definitely_ not breathing.

“Likewise,” he manages.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, and a smile breaks through the mess of nerves that was on his face before. “You’re - Crowley, you’re _lovely_ , and I would very much like - I think - that is - ” 

He’s twisting his fingers together. He’s nervous. He’s _nervous_ . He’s **_adorable_ ** **.**

“Yes?” gasps Crowley, when it seems like Aziraphale isn’t going to say anything. (It will occur to him later that he could have taken the lead, and he will feel a little bit guilty.) 

Aziraphale takes a breath.

“I would like to be your boyfriend,” he says, voice strong but still avoiding Crowley’s gaze. “I would like to date you. I’d like to get to know you more. I’d like - ”

“Me, too,” says Crowley, surprising himself. Vulnerability isn’t - but if Aziraphale can do it, so can he. And it’s not like he hasn’t been blurting stuff he didn’t mean to all afternoon, anyway. “I really - Aziraphale, you’re _fantastic_ . I want to date you, too. God, I’d _love_ that.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. “Oh. Oh, I am elated to hear it.”

Crowley is grinning like an idiot. He knows that he’s grinning like an idiot. He doesn’t even care.

“I’m so glad, angel,” he says, closing his eyes and running his hands through his hair. “I - you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life, did you know that?”

“Nonsense,” says Azirpahale, turning red.

“‘S true,” says Crowley, who is probably equally visibly embarrassed. “And you’re kind and considerate and - ”

“Oh, stop,” says Aziraphale. Crowley doesn’t stop.

“ - friendly and brave and funny and brilliant - ”

“Oh, really, Crowley, you should - ”

“ - and _gorgeous_ , you’re _so_ gorgeous, and I - ”

Aziraphale kisses him. Aziraphale kisses him, and he promptly shuts up because his brain shuts down.

And he kisses back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3 <3


End file.
